


Life imitates art

by behzaintfunny



Category: Men's Football RPF
Genre: I love inventing pairings that don't exist, It's basically just Edin worship, M/M, Mild Sexual Content, One Night Stands, Rare Pairings
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-07-11
Updated: 2020-07-11
Packaged: 2021-03-04 18:00:41
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,669
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/25170523
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/behzaintfunny/pseuds/behzaintfunny
Summary: A brief moment of closure slipping through their fingers. Dimly lit rooms and sunkissed skin. A story told in pleasure and in pain.
Relationships: Lorenzo Insigne/Edin Džeko
Comments: 5
Kudos: 2





	Life imitates art

**Author's Note:**

> Naturally, upon seeing the captains greet each other in the most recent derby (2-1 to Napoli with a great Insigne winner), my mind immediately went down the gutter. The height difference killed me. I would apologise, but I'm not sorry in the slightest.
> 
> Title is from "Gods and Monsters" by Lana Del Rey. I suggest listening to it, not only because it's a great song, but also because I did spend most of my writing time listening to it in the background. It's very fitting.

Fresh linen sheets and the faint aroma of a lavender pillow spray, almost intoxicating under the cover of night.

Chamomile, which he cannot quite place, and the terrible San Paolo shower gel taking away from the sweat and grime underneath. He cannot smell the exhaustion on Edin but he can see it in the way his hands roam a tad too gently upon his body, how pliant his broad thighs are underneath him.

A bloody gush on the side of his calf, red, red like Edin himself, like the depths of his soul and perhaps further still, but Lorenzo wouldn't know, not having made any advances towards the colour red himself.

His hand runs feather light touches against the underside of Edin's broad thighs, the skin there like the fuzz on a most ripe peach, painted with faintly visible hairs that come to life upon the soft golden glimmer of street lights. It feels stolen, in a way, like it isn't meant for him to bear witness upon. An secret otherwise unspoken, a purely intimate performance to be savoured like the most exquisite sort of art.

Still, Lorenzo's hand sneaks ever higher as he fights against the urge to nuzzle his face against the silky soft skin. Carved to masterpiece, Edin's long legs lay open, all harsh edges and muscles, and the soft, soft skin beneath.

Call him a fool, maybe, but Lorenzo always had a small taste for perfection. It's only natural to want all which is the best in life despite oneself, from food to drink to lovers, and God, does he want _._

Faintly, Lorenzo finds himself yearning to find out what it is that constitutes the aroma of Edin's sweat. He's had plenty of time to figure out for himself, in the midst of post-match adrenaline and hastily exchanged pleasantries, when his nerves are still buzzing and nothing really feels real save for the tingle in his feet. He wouldn't trust himself enough to remember anything of significance then save for the scoreline.

He'd like to find out for himself, to get rid of the incessant menthol that kisses Edin's skin and instead have him for all he truly is. He figures it must have a fruity tinge to it, perhaps the likes of a barest hint of citrus, or something similarly dignified.

Edin's kisses don't taste of cirtus, or of sweetness. His lips feel like they yearn for something else, not quite knowing what, never enough. Lorenzo feels his arms beginning to ache where Edin holds him, in little dents that don't quite draw blood, but makes no move to change it.

He abandons Edin's lips to instead kiss down his pulse point, where he can feel the vibration of every sound he makes reverberating against his skin like a quiet but true masterpiece. He hears a plea fall off his lips but pays it little mind, only to find himself lingering a tad longer than necessary where perfect sun-kissed freckles paint Edin's shoulders.

Then, it's just the gentle flush welcoming his neck, desperate sounds like music to his ears, one of Edin's thighs wounding around the low of Lorenzo's back. Securing him in place or grounding himself, he doesn't know.

Great, long legs that seem to have no end to them, pulling him ever closer, until he can hardly decipher in the dark where one man ends and another begins. He looks up to see the extent of Edin's want glimmering in his eyes, almost as dark as the room itself, staring him down from beneath long lashes with a peculiar sort of desperation.

Lorenzo's kisses strive ever south, down the flat of Edin's stomach and the edges of every muscle with an aim to devour it like the sweetest nectar hidden within the flesh of man. He pays little mind to his hands roaming the sides of Edin's torso, only distantly noting how little leverage he has over Edin, carved to utmost perfection like the statues of marble and stone.

The key difference, and perhaps the thing dizzying Lorenzo's mind the most, is the rapidly pulsating heartbeat underneath the pretty pretense of perfection, and the uneven intakes of breath he can feel against his open palms. It dawns upon him then how Edin is more perfect than the picture itself, purely in how he's a bleeding, living thing much like himself, wanton and in gentle surrender.

The Romans never succeeded in teaching that with stone and chisel, how the beauty of man shines within his simple mortality.

Lorenzo's kisses taste like apology, even though there is no such thing within his mind. He knows better than to feel pity where it is not due, to taste his share of victory and feed upon it, and yet there is no feeling of glee in how he has his way with Edin.

If a part of him hopes that upon closing his eyes Edin feels somewhat more victorious tonight, there is no hurt in it so long as it stays unspoken, intrusive like the golden glimmering light shining through the sheer hotel curtains, and just as insignificant in the grand picture.

He halts to straighten his back and press a gentle kiss to the underside of Edin's knee where it falls flush against his shoulder. He unravels Edin as though he were a present, a most exquisite delicacy, feeling an uninvited groan escape his lips once Edin uses his other leg to bring them flush against each other.

He sees the immediate effect it has on Edin, couldn't possibly miss it, but it does nothing to clench the feeling boiling down in the low of his stomach just as fiercely as within his head, sending shivers all the way down his spine and making him dizzy with it.

In truth, Lorenzo knows naught of how they found themselves here in the first place. An unfortunate series of stolen glances and unspoken pleas, as it often is, a tale of adrenaline and glory just as much as of loss, a force of gravity that pulled them towards some nameless hotel room. Just enough security to make everything safe and sound, not any more than necessary.

A part of Lorenzo figures Edin deserves far better than that -- to be spread across every viable surface, perhaps, in a place that can be called someone's home, shamelessly and openly, not a mere chance occurence but a most cherished ritual.

His brain manages to silence the thought as he bites down on the supple skin of the underside of Edin's thigh, eliciting from him a sound akin to a whine. The sweat beginning to form there is salty-sweet, a mixture of pure chaos that still makes an almost perfect harmony on Lorenzo's tongue. The initial spark of pain causes Edin to tense up instinctively, affectively suffocating Lorenzo between his thighs for a fleeting moment of composure otherwise lost.

Bruising, deep and vibrant like the skin on a cherry, paints Edin's thigh like a highly inappropriate signature, a debauched picture of pleasure, adding to his already flushed skin. Kissed in the dim fluorescent light, in the beautiful Naples, he resembles a soul from art long gone, sinful and erotic, only palpable, real and willingly upon Lorenzo's mercy.

Edin's frantic hand reaching between Lorenzo's legs manages to ground him enough to forget his train of thought entirely, succumbing him to a cacophony of small noises otherwise bitten back. In a frenzy, Lorenzo reaches to kiss him, to silence himself and the other man alike, swallowing the symphony of his voice. Sweet is the pain as Edin's thighs tighten around him on their own accord, a likely subconscious portrayal of his strength and power above him that does wonders to spark Lorenzo's arousal.

His teeth catch on Edin's lip as a litany of moans threatens to escape his mouth, the metallic tang of blood almost sweet on his tongue. Edin's heels push forcefully against the low of his back, eliciting pain which is all but sweet and bound to bruise, but Lorenzo has no mind to act upon it. Instead, he finds himself clinging rather desperately to the body beneath him, exerting all the remnants of strength he still posesses to press Edin flush against the mattress.

Lavender and chamomile, as soothing as exhilarating, fill Lorenzo's lungs in a frenzy as he presses his weight down upon Edin. Nowhere near enough to hurt, but strong enough to feel true.

Blood and sweat mingle atop his skin where Edin kisses him, desperately and messily, adding to their perfect picture of ruin. His hand, malicious in its tease, eliciting such a response from him that he wouldn't otherwise deem dignified. The other is pressed flush against the bed where Lorenzo holds him down, a gentle burn where his hand meets flesh and bone within.

He could easily overpower him had he chosen to, without even breaking too much of a sweat, but that is simply out of the equation. Lorenzo wouldn't know how to escape the grip Edin's legs have on him even if he tried.

The realization brings with it such waves of passion he wouldn't otherwise deem possible; a broken sigh in the hollow of Edin's shoulder, a desperate snap of his hips. Wholly encompassing like the lavender aroma on the pristine white sheets.

Nails, malicious nails running down Lorenzo's back, like little kitten licks or kisses, bound to keep marks that shall raise a fair share of questions, yet no less welcome. He exerts all which he can upon Edin to in turn be marked by him, signed, sealed and sent off with a kiss. Not a ruined canvas but a wholly different kind of art.

Edin's strong thighs never leave their embrace on Lorenzo's body, desperate in its simplicity. Lorenzo wishes he could tell him he wasn't going to go anywhere with the first rays of sunlight, but cannot find it in himself to do so.

They don't speak, but their bodies sing, and beautiful is the melody of their undoing.


End file.
